Wayne Greenough

I looked beyond the shot glass full of rye, held tantalizingly close to my lips, and didn’t see anybody. When it occurred to me to look downward, I saw a cute, blue-eyed kid with a scared look on his face. He couldn’t have been older than seven, or maybe six months shy from eight. On his head, he sported a faded blue baseball cap that failed to cover his black curly hair. He was wearing a dark-blue heavy jacket, resembling a Navy coat, covering him down to his waist. The coat matched his black jeans and athletic shoes.

I put my rye down on my desk and smiled. “Yeah, I’m Thanet Blake. What’s your name?”

“I’m Jimmy MacWilliams. My dad talks about you lots of times. He told me where to find your office. And he was right.”

I sighed and hoped his father had the sense not to tell him the usual jokes about me. They aren’t the kind a little kid should hear. Why was this kid here to see me, anyway? And more importantly, why was he alone? This might be the season for good will toward others, but that didn’t mean there weren’t unscrupulous people waiting to take advantage of the innocent. Maybe someone was scamming me. Maybe the scammer sent an innocent kid—a kid who couldn’t possibly know the straight skinny of the deal—to set me up. Maybe I’m too cynical. It was time I found out immediately or, if possible, sooner. “Well hi there, Jimmy. Are your parents nearby?”

“Mom’s shopping at the big store about a block away. I told her I was going to see you.”

I concluded that his mother wouldn’t have heard him over the din of bargain hunters. “I’ll tell you what, Jimmy MacWilliams. If your mother doesn’t show up soon, we’ll go looking for her. What do you say to that?” At a brief nod of agreement, I asked the question that burned foremost in my mind. “Now, can you tell me why you left the safety of your mother’s side to come visit me?”

“My dad said you were a real cheap gumshoe. I want to hire you. Are you for hire, Mr. Blake?”

I looked hard at the kid. The expression on his face pleaded for me to say yes as tears welled in his big blue eyes. I’m a lollipop for tears. I wanted to cry myself—in sympathy, mind you. Yeah, this wasn’t a scam. Whatever was going down was on the up and up.

“Jimmy, before I can answer that, I’d like you to tell me what the trouble is.” There was something wrong with my voice. It didn’t sound hardboiled.

Tears streaked his face. His voice cracked with emotion. “Holiday Spirit is missing. He can’t be found by anybody.”

“Holiday Spirit, Jimmy? Is that your cat, a dog, or maybe a horse?”

Between heavy sobs Jimmy said, “No, Holiday Spirit is a man at our church. We love him, and now he’s gone.”

Finally, the name struck me. Holiday Spirit was the guy who always came to visit this city during November and December. Although I never had the pleasure of meeting him, I’d heard great things about him.

I directed Jimmy to sit down in my one and only chair for clients. Once Jimmy sat down, I walked to my mini-refrigerator, grabbed a can of soda pop, opened it, and handed it to him along with a box of tissues. He dried his tears, sipped a little, and slowly explained why Holiday Spirit was a special guy at church.

“He’s Santa Claus. He gives gifts to everybody. He makes everybody happy, and now, he’s disappeared. No one knows where he is, not even the police. I want you to find him, Mr. Blake. Please say you will.”

I ordered six bottles of Guinness Extra Stout and walked to Rumpott’s table. On my last beer, a man sat down across from me. His grin was an obnoxious triumphant smile as he put a Colt .32 automatic on the table. I stared at it. It was pointing in my direction.

“Beautiful weapon, isn’t it, a real collector’s item,” the guy whispered. “I took it from a lady who doesn’t have a need for it anymore. Thanet Blake, I’ve been looking for you. Finish your beer and then we’ll take a little walk in the alley behind this joint.”

His voice became Hollywood gangster deadly. It matched the deadliness of the weapon that was now in his right hand. I finished my beer.

In the alley, I sweated weight from my body while trying to keep from pissing my pants. I was scared, like I’d been scared only one other time in my life. I came out of that one with a whole skin. I doubted that I could this time.

In the shadows, his voice came to me. It was still deadly. “Before I make you into a morgue study, I want you to know that I’m the web guy responsible for your internet publicity. Did you like it?”

How do you talk when fear has made your mouth into a desert? You manage to croak. “Am I really worth ten thousand dollars, dead?”

“No! Your value is the cost of a bullet in your head. I cancelled The Thanet Arthur Blake contest. However, as I will not delete it, it will always be on the web. Think of all the dumb asses that will still come looking for you. How many do you think will visit your gravestone? I’ll do that you know, one time only. I’ll pour rye on your grave after I’ve strained it through my kidneys.”

I couldn’t control my bladder. It cut loose, forever wrecking my slacks. I thanked the wetness flowing down my legs for the anger that made me ask, “Why are you doing this?”

“For the memory of my brother, that’s why. You helped end his life.”

Who was his brother? Before I could ask, he began mumbling.

“Yes, my brother. Never mind that we always hated each other. He was my brother. He was family, and when family is murdered, you do something about it. This is my second time at gunning you. My old Forty-Five just sort of fell apart. Very sorry about botching the job, but this time you’re dead meat for certain. I’m using my new gun on you.”

In the dim light coming from the alley doorway of the watering hole, I caught the glint of the automatic as he moved it to where it was now pointing at my head. This was it. I said goodbye to the world.

My name is Alexander Madigan. I inherited a mansion that’s so old it might have been built before the thirteen colonies existed. I live all alone so I talk to myself and the twelve suits of armor standing in the mansion’s upstairs great hallway. In fact I had just said goodnight to them when right in front of me, so close it touched my toes, popped a thirteenth one. I swallowed down fear before I talked to it.

“I’m not really seeing you, am I? You’re nothing, only a case of loneliness tremors, or something akin to that. So do me a favor, just go away and right now.”

Of course it didn’t. It stayed and began changing colors, slowly at first, until it became a dark violet that radiated heat. Its helmet visor moved upward and two fiery eyes did things to my mind while staring through my skull and out its back end. A knife edge voice electrified the mansion’s air and raked my spine.

“At last we meet face to face.”

That was the beginning of my adventure that took me from modern day Earth and sent me through a dimension door to a medieval Earth.

An eye wink later, everything changed. I went sailing over the cliff and started falling through the air. Two miles below was the boulder-strewn ground. I twisted and turned in midair. Thoughts exploded in my head. How could this be? I was in the castle…In the castle!

The wind whistled around my falling body. It cooled my armor and hissed through my helmet. Below was my death.

Princess Rowena’s ship rested on clear, smooth water in the lagoon. I hoped she didn’t see me falling, or dying.

I fell so rapidly, my stomach felt like it was lodged in my mouth. I felt no fear, only sadness. I had failed to avenge Kadzal and Zerk’s deaths. This Earth would not be avenged, and Princess Rowena and her people would remain enslaved.

“Goodbye, my love. If it’s possible to come back, I will. I love you.”

Lack of money caused the school district to close down two schools. The one I am now in has no lunchroom which means we eat in the classroom. So when lunch period arrived we all left the room to wash our hands before we opened our lunches.

Everybody was talking like mad except me. I hunched over and chewed on my peanut butter sandwich. Time stood still until I saw something that made me doubt my senses.

Mason Dugan was slowly trying to peel a hardboiled egg and still have some left to eat. His face was all wrinkled up, and his eyes, in those thick bottle glass lenses he is forced to wear because of his poor eyesight, were really determined. After a minute a satisfied look crossed his face telling me the egg had been conquered. He reached for salt and pepper and began sprinkling the egg with a thick layer. At the same time Mr. Blu walked by his desk, sneezed and turned completely blue in the face. It was the brightest blue I have ever seen. I shook my head. I couldn’t have seen what I saw. Maybe my science fiction imagination was beginning to do strange things to me

The six dismounted.  In unison they separated until they stood four feet apart, became a straight line and took several steps forward.

Blake watched as Mask sized up the six.  She whispered.  “We’re in for a fight, Lawman.”

He whispered back, “Six to one aren’t good odds.  You don’t have a spare gun under your hat do you?”

“No, just the two .44s you see on my hips.  Besides, the odds are just great.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Just you watch, lawman.”

It has been written many times, and verbalized a lot more often, that hardboiled detectives are cynical and old fashioned. They will take no live prisoners because they enjoy the sound of gunfire and the viewing of corpses. They believe in nothing because they have seen it all. In addition, what’s happening in the world around them makes them bone tired, weary, and stone-faced to where they never smile. A cloud of cigarette smoke is always surrounding them. They constantly booze on cheap liquor, are rough in speech and manner, and only by luck do they ever manage to solve their cases.

Every word in the above paragraph is true. I ought to know. I’m Private Detective Thanet Blake, and I’m sure as hell hardboiled in my attitude on life. My voice has a deep growl. Every word I say is slow, to the point, and reeks with danger. My face is overly rugged and has the appearance of a logging truck running over it.

“B-17,” exclaimed Edna.

“P-39,” shouted Morty.

Every boy in the audience roared with laughter. In front of a room crowded with schoolmates, Morty had just made an embarrassing mistake about identifying an airplane silhouette.

To increase his embarrassment, Wilson and David threw spitballs at him. Those obnoxiously wet projectiles struck his right ear and head, going unnoticed by Master Sergeant Crosman, who at the moment was rolling his eyes upward to the ceiling in an apparent attempt to remain calm and patient with the group of unruly children he had been ordered to train.

“Remember, Morty, a B-17 is a four engine bomber, while a P-39 is a single engine fighter plane. Now, look closely at the airplane silhouette and tell me how many engines you see.”

Morty squinted and tried to concentrate. All eyes were upon him. He looked at the sea of snickering faces and knew the boys were mocking him, hoping he would fail. His cousin Wilson and the bully David were usually mean to him. They thought he was a failure to start with—a hopeless case, as Wilson called him.

Not for Edna though. Brown-skinned and brown-eyed, she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Oh, how he loved her, so much so that when he had to talk to her at school, he didn’t know what to say. He always blushed and looked at his shoes.

“Count the engines, Morty. How many are there?” coaxed Master Sergeant Crosman.

Morty was so frightened he was certain he was going to have a bowel movement. He started to count aloud, which was another mistake.

“Uh, one, two, three…I see three, Sir,” he whispered, just loud enough for everybody to hear.

This time, the whole audience laughed and Morty tried to crawl under his chair, but there wasn’t enough room so he had to remain where he was at and take the taunts, the barbs, the unkind remarks from his fellow humans. Or were they human? Maybe they were the monstrous enemy to be stamped out like some disease. He felt tears coming to his eyes and he wished he was home listening to his beloved Atwater Kent Radio.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” Sergeant Crosman commented loudly above the teasing and laughing. “We made a terrible one at Pearl Harbor when we failed to identify the Japanese planes until they were bombing us.”

He squinted menacingly at the mess of kids in front of him before calmly saying, “Now, if any of you are perfect you may continue teasing Morty. If you are not perfect, then remain quiet.”

Silence reigned immediately, and for a full minute.

“Thank you. How many engines do you see, Morty?”

“Four,” Morty whispered.

“Great. Now, what is a war plane with four engines?”

“A bomber,” Morty shouted triumphantly.

“Right, Morty. Class is dismissed for the night. I will see you all in three days. In the meantime, memorize the airplane silhouettes you’re taking home.”

I heard the shots, three of them, far back in the alley. I stopped at its entrance and did some thinking. My body did not need a new hole. Whoever was doing the shooting surely had more bullets. I’m a big target. But maybe it’s the serial killer. He used a gun on Malone. Come on, Blake, act like a bullet, go once more into the gun barrel.

I crept into the alley with my bowels roaring, feeling the icy clamminess of its right wall with my right hand for stability. Stygian darkness surrounded me, invaded my body, my soul, my nerve. A little man inside me hollered, “Don’t be stupid. Run the hell out of here.” I told the sonofabitch to shut up. Seconds dragged into minutes before I stumbled over something that groaned. I knelt and felt a human body.

Knowing I would become the impossible target to miss, I snapped on my pen flashlight. I needed to know who was down. I didn’t count on there being three bodies. Seconds later I knew that Jiggers Davis was dead, Pack Rat Louie was dead, and Jokester Jones was dying.

“Blake, is that you…?”

“Yeah, Jokester, it’s me.”

“Good…I’m buying the farm…aren’t I…?”

“Yeah…”

“My brothers…?”

“They’ve gone on ahead of you…Jokester…Can you tell me who did this to you…”

“No. The bastard never gave us a chance…Never thought you’d know the answer to my joke…”

“Gum, Jokester, gum…”

I don’t think he heard me. I put him down next to his brothers. As I stood I heard a voice. The killer was still in the alley.

“You’re next, Blake.”

 “Petey, I’ve got to find a wild animal,” he said. “The guys might not let me stay in the club if I don’t.”

Tears began showing in Joey’s eyes. I really felt sorry for the little guy. I sighed and said the first dumb thing that came to my mind. “A spider is a wild animal. The next one Elf catches in our backroom we’ll just put it in a jar.”

Joey frowned. “No. Elf smashes them up too badly.”

I nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. How about an ant? Ants come into the house and Elf just stares at them. They would be easy to catch.”

Joey shook his head. “No. Mike and Murray don’t like ants. Neither does David.”

“Worms? How about flies, Joey?”

“No!”

I sighed. “Look, Joey, let me think about this until tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

* * * *

That was it, until real early in the next morning.

It started as a soft noise coming from the kitchen. I rolled over in bed and pretended I didn’t hear anything. “Go away,” I mumbled. “Let me sleep.”

Of course, it didn’t happen that way.

More noise. Somebody was running.

A cat meowed.

Elf!

“What have you got there?” asked a voice.

Joey!

I turned on a light and looked at my watch…three in the morning.

I put on my jeans and headed for the kitchen. Joey was standing in the dark holding a shining flashlight in his right hand.

“Joey, what are you doing?” I asked in between a big yawn.

He whispered, “I couldn’t sleep. So, I decided to play with Elf. I caught him staring at a mouse. It ran behind the stove when it saw me. Petey, I’ve got to catch him.”

For a second, I wondered why Elf hadn’t caught the mouse. Then I remembered Elf was a house cat that had never seen a mouse until this morning. He wouldn’t know about catching them.

I looked at the stove. “Are you sure this is where the mouse is hiding?” I whispered to Joey.

Joey nodded.

“Okay. Wait here.”

I quietly zoomed back to my room. A year ago, I had goldfish. Now, all I had was their plastic bowl. It would be a nice home for a mouse.

Back in the kitchen, I handed the bowl to Joey and took his flashlight. “Now, listen carefully,” I said. “Grab Elf and hang on to him. When I pull the stove away from the wall, you move fast. Maybe you and Elf will scare the mouse so badly it can’t move. If that happens, catch him in the goldfish bowl.

I moved the stove and pointed the flashlight.

Joey ran.

“I got him! I got the mouse!

The sign is right. It’s a mean world full of mean mindless people. Okay, so I don’t understand the human race, we do seem to be a commodity of no value. Everywhere, people are killing people and nobody seems to care enough to stop the continuous slaughter. A year ago, the world situation became too much for me. I unhooked the cable from my television and told the cable company to cancel my subscription. I stopped reading newspapers. I do my damndest to hide from reality. However, because my body demands food, drink, and cigarettes, I have an occupation.

I’m Thanet Blake, Private Detective, and like every shamus, dick, peeper, whatever you might want to call me, I have memories, some good, some not so good, and some damned scary.

It was Wednesday, my birthday. I had become officially thirty-five years old when my wall clock chimed three times. I was very busy sucking on a rye bottle, smoking my favorite brand and singing, If the ocean were whiskey and I was a duck, I would dive to the bottom and never come up. I couldn’t remember the rest of the song so I sang happy-birthday-to-me and mumbled, “To hell with the murderous human race. Give me the isolation of an asteroid miner.”

She didn’t walk into my office. She appeared right after the air became electrified. In the movies, all blondes are goddess-lovely and have green eyes that hypnotize your soul. The vision smiling in my direction had both of those highly desirable qualities. I eyeballed the designer jeans molded to a figure that would cause a century old man to shed eight decades, a T-shirt that hid nothing, and athletic shoes. In addition, I did wonder about my soul.

“Are you Thanet Arthur Blake, the Private Investigator?”

Her voice was husky and sensuous, one you could listen to all day, and hardly wait to hear her say spend the night with me. It could launch ships, melt steel, and talk me into anything. I remember thinking that my friend, Police Officer Lieutenant Gilhoolie, usually pulled a gag on my birthday and this one was a real ripsnorter, a blonde and a private detective. The blonde would, of course, ask the detective to solve a desperate problem as her eyes batted seductively and her breasts bounced like two dribbling basketballs. I managed not to laugh. I couldn’t stop a wise-ass smile as I decided to play along with Gilhoolie’s birthday gag.

“Yeah, I’m Blake,” I said and accidentally belched a rye. “The sign on the door should say so unless my landlord changed it. He does that when I haven’t paid the rent, which is this month. Then I become Lousy Deadbeat Private Dickhead.”

She gave me a bewildered look, brushed the dust from the chair in front of my desk, and sat down. “I want to hire you,” she said.

This time, I couldn’t stop my laughter before saying, “You’re good, lady. Where did Lieutenant Gilhoolie rent you?” She opened her mouth to speak. I raised my right hand and said, “Say no more. I’m a year closer to old age today and in no mood for gags.”

She closed her mouth and I dialed police headquarters. The chain of command, starting at the bottom and working upward, stalled for about two minutes before I finally got whom I wanted.

“Happy Birthday, Thanet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sitting at my desk and staring at the birthday present you sent me. How come she didn’t pop out of a cake? And where are the chains, the whips and leather outfit? It’s an old Hollywood formula, Gilhoolie, a gorgeous blonde hiring a downbeat dick to handle a desperate problem that only he can solve. Anyway, she is quite a present and I thank you.”

Gilhoolie began laughing loud enough to vibrate down a brick building. It took him a full minute before he could talk.

“She’s a client, Thanet. However, if you want to make her into a present, go ahead. This year, I’m just sending you a birthday card.”

“Well, Shawn Michael MacTavish, saw you blast off from the Academy and followed you here,” said Gatano, as he jerked Shawn Michael’s blaster from its holster. “And now we have you in our gun sights.”

“Who are you, mister? What do you want?”

“Names aren’t important. As to what we want, why your life, what else? Now march into the dunes. You, Shawn Michael are going to walk into the desert a short distance, take your blaster pistol from its holster and commit suicide.”

The situation was desperate. He had to keep the assassin talking. “Who hired you to kill me?”

“Nobody is going to kill you. I said you were committing suicide. Besides, what makes you think somebody hired me? Maybe I thought of this myself.”

Shawn Michael saw an opportunity to make a break for it, or at least go down fighting. If he could just get the thug to gun prod his back maybe he could whirl around, jerk the blaster from his hand, and fight his way out of the trap. It was a big if. What about the prodder’s four silent partners? Would his sudden move catch them off guard? Well, here goes nothing, time for an insulting comment.

“You had a thought? Don’t make me laugh. By your appearance you’re nothing but a brainless Neanderthal. Hell, a filthy space rat like you wouldn’t have brains enough to dodge oncoming asteroids unless you were told to do so by somebody who had more than an odd lump on his shoulders.”

Gatano yelled and jabbed him in the back. Shawn Michael twisted around, grabbed for Gatano’s blaster…

An hour later, over bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee for the both of us, Jennifer began talking. “Thanet, you’ve been on my mind since I helped you solve The Ferguson Murder.”

I gagged on my coffee over that one. She reached over and tapped my left shoulder. “Don’t worry. I didn’t mean it that way. You’re too old for me. I am nineteen. Do you know I’ve been following you for days?”

“No, I didn’t know. You’re kidding me, aren’t you?”

“Here you are, a private eye, and you don’t know when you’re being tailed? How come, when this city is being quickly emptied of people of your profession?”

I smiled at her before saying, “You’re right. Thanks for calling what I do a profession, by the way. Now, Jennifer, why are you sitting across the breakfast table from me, and do your mother and father know you’re here? If they do, how good of a shot is your father?”

“My parents think I’m downtown shopping and Father’s an expert shot with his Mauser Broomhandle. As to why I’m here, I’m doing research work for my third detective novel I’ve titled, The Inept Detective. It’s going to be about a private eye that knows nothing about solving murder cases. He’s always about ready to be offed by some bad guy. He can’t shoot, knows nothing about detection…in fact, he couldn’t even apprehend a cold. Oh, and everybody around him gets offed, which is handy for him simply because if there is only one person left alive, then that person is the guilty person. That’s the plot. What do you think? Do you like it?”

“It sounds great, Jennifer, and also a little familiar. How did you think of the title?”

“It just popped into my head one night, shortly after I did that computer work for you. Are you sure it sounds familiar? Gee, I thought it was an original idea.”

She finished her coffee. I poured seconds for both of us and stared at the kid sitting across the table from me. She wasn’t more than five feet tall, ninety-five pounds dripping wet, and with an intelligence quotient that had to be up there in lights. She was terrific.

“The police hired you to look into the private detective offings. Never mind how I found out they had, just tell me about it.”

It took two full hours. Jennifer asked a million questions and wanted every minute detail. She suggested I write some things down. I did. As a result, we drank lots of coffee and even had a light lunch.

“You’re obviously missing some vital clues, Thanet. Think through everything again.” She kissed my cheek and left.

I did a lot of thinking while driving to my office. As I parked the old ‘56 Ford in the parking lot, my brain was busy lining up what I thought might be clues. As I walked the six blocks to my home away from home, things were beginning to make sense. As I opened my squeaking office door, I knew the offer’s identity for about two seconds before someone sapped me on the head.

I don’t know how long I was out, but I do know it was long enough for me to be stripped naked, draped flat on my desktop with my hands and feet tied to the desk’s legs. A scent of perfume invaded my nostrils, one I recognized. I opened my peepers and saw a completely naked Dusty. She was holding two silver-plated, ivory-handled, engraved Colt .45 automatics and wearing three inch stiletto shoes. She was gorgeous—and deadly.

As Derek paused, Bbril Aaeronus spoke. “What you have said about some of us living to see our solar systems being trapped by the black hole is mind-boggling, unless the entrapment is two thousand Tian years away. That is the current belief of many Celestial Wisdom Finders who just finished conducting their own research. I’m sure you also discovered the same along with your two hundred year conclusion.”

“True, I did. So which one do we accept? Dare we to wait to see if we become trapped in two centuries?”

Small, excited Darlk from planet Damal spoke with a disquieting hiss. “I would like to say that Damal has traditionally studied the stars and planets. We have recorded all the asteroids in the twin solar systems and know that Valdaria A has a larger asteroid belt than Valdaria B. But what is the consumption rate of your shipworlds? And define consumption for us. How do they eat?”

“The shipworlds dissolve the asteroids then absorb them until they reach a certain programmed size. At that time, all growth and body functions will become dormant, giving us a chance to enter the shipworlds to begin our work.”

Derek paused. He sipped water and hoped he was being understood. Clearing his throat he continued.

“A secondary power supply will be installed first, not only to propel the ship for solar system travel, but to act as a highly regulated and unlimited food supply for the shipworlds. At first, fuel for this secondary propulsion system will be the type we now use. It will eventually be refined from the deuterium used in the main reaction engines when they become installed.

“From the asteroid calculations you sent Tia some months ago, Tia’s Celestial Wisdom Finders were able to conclude that the asteroid belt encircling Valdaria A would be an adequate food supply for a thousand shipworlds.”

For the next few seconds, Derek studied the doubtful expressions of the seven. “I know you think this is nothing but a wild theory spawned by a young Head Council who suffers from more than a touch of madness. Well, perhaps you are right. But thanks to my ingenuity, we have shipworlds growing from human cells.”

“Human?” Bbril Aaeronus interjected. “Whose, might I ask?”

“Mine.”

“Ego,” mumbled Dak Marr.

“I agree. But they are hardly my cells anymore. Energy beams have sliced them into sections again and again. Each time the organism matured, it had altered into something else. I altered my cells, thousands of times, then millions, until I achieved what I wanted—a cell that would grow into a shipworld.”

“And the many pitiful organisms you did not want? What of them?”

The question came from Hannell Arvella, and he should have expected it. Sweat bathed Derek’s armpits as he admitted, “They were taken care of.”

“Taken care of. Those are polite, proper words for cold blooded termination. You used Valdaria B as a dumping ground for your failures.”

Mentally Derek used a paragraph of ancient oaths. How had Hannell Arvella learned about Valdaria B? Was it from a leak in security? Definitely, that had to be it. Blast his pious sanctimonious beliefs. “Yes, it’s true. The quickest way to eliminate my, as you called them, failures, was to dump them into a star. That way, they were instantly vaporized. They were not failures. They were successes. I gained much wisdom from them. I learned. I perfected.”

“It is still termination. And all life is precious.”

“Oh Lord! We all terminate.”

“I do not. I never have. I never will.”

Bbril interrupted. “Gentlemen, your philosophical argument is pointless and stupid. Derek Rawn, you have an interesting hypothesis, growing shipworlds from cells. Perfected, you say. I find it impossible to believe the word perfected.”

“Perhaps you are right, Bbril Aaeronus. Near perfection is perhaps a better description of the accomplishment I am about to show all of you.”

Derek led the way. It was a brief walk to a huge red square, surrounded by superb Tian architecture. The delicate appearing but incredibly tough crystal buildings reached upward to claw aside the sky, to declare that Tia was a world of super cities, the technological center of the ten planets.

Derek spoke into his wrist communicator. “We are ready.”

A claxon sounded, then a voice. “Clear the area. A ship is about to land. Clear the area.”

“A ship, landing here, when it is so populated?”

“Yes, Bbril Aaeronus, in less than a minute. We are ready, Pagan. You may land now.”

With a roar that threatened to rent a jagged hole in the blue afternoon sky, a spaceship streaked into view, to hover briefly like a giant bird searching for a roost. Then down it came, a gleaming silver needle with wings and tail fins. It belched fire and thunder from its braking rockets as it made a weightless landing.

“Gentlemen, what you see before you is Pagan, a tiny, but nonetheless, perfect example of our future spaceships.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

Bbril Aaeronus’ voice was saturated with awe. “It spoke to you! And you named it Pagan?”

“As a matter of fact, he named himself.”

“You called this ship a he?” protested giant sized Besmart Tou, from planet Bela. “Next you will be telling us, he is alive.”

“I am,” said Pagan. “I started out as one cell. Just as the Galactic Lord programmed your cells into becoming you, Derek programmed my cells into becoming me. Furthermore, if I am damaged I have the ability to heal myself.”

Bbril Aaeronus stared at Derek. “That is very interesting, Pagan’s healing ability. Can that be developed for us?”

“I believe so. My Wisdom Finders feel certain an injection can be perfected which will allow us to heal faster and resist diseases better. They are also experimenting with a form of immortality. At the age of three hundred and fifty, we enter The Beyond. One of our cells could be thawed out and stimulated into growing. Think Gentlemen, everybody could live over and over again, for all eternity.”

“Surely, you do not mean cells for everybody,” said Bbril.